In Tribute
by Asynca
Summary: Lara is an orphan from District 12. Sam Nishimura is Media Mogul 'The Censor's daughter. Even in another lifetime and another place, their paths are destined to cross and their shared fate is already sealed.


**In Tribute – Lara, Sam – Tomb Raider/Hunger Games Crossover**

A prompt requested by Doomkitteh, who very generously donated huge amounts of money to help me fund costs associated with my novel _Under My Skin_.

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><p>The light above my bed wakes me up.<p>

I didn't turn it off at night; I don't need to, because District 12 _never_ has electricity this early in the morning. For a second I'm just lying there staring up at the bulb above me, trying to figure out why on earth it would be on, and then I remember: today is the day of the reaping.

I suppose electricity at 6am is the Capitol's way of subtly encouraging us to get up and _celebrate_.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me I didn't have dinner last night. It's the thought of wild berries and real meat that eventually drives me out of bed, and before I'm properly awake I'm already pulling on my boots and fussing with hair so it doesn't fall all over my face.

The house where I live has always belonged to my family, but it's such a big house for just one person. A big, old house full of glass display cases and even older books. Really, I should be more frightened about living here surrounded by all my father's stuff; because aside from a narrow selection of Capitol-approved books, books are contraband. When I was younger, my father and Roth used to go to great lengths to hide them all, especially after we got raided and some of his books were seized. I don't bother anymore. As soon as Roth died, I dug them all up and put them on display just like my father had always wanted to.

He would have loved to stand here, like I do every day now, looking up at the full book cases. Looking at all his work. 'Mining is your work, Croft! You'd do well to remember that!' a Peacekeeper had roughly told my father many years ago as I'd peeked down through the bannister. My father had calmly smiled and told the Peacekeeper who was restraining him, 'No, mining is my _job_.' They hadn't been happy about that answer. They'd not been happy about my father in general. In fact, the only thing that had ever made them happy about him was hearing the news that he'd died in a freak mining explosion soon after that.

I never did understand what all the fuss about my father's books and the artefacts was, anyway. What possible interest could the Capitol have in _archaeology_?

_No one_ was as interested in it as my father, not even Roth. It was his life's work. His _passion_. He wanted people to know about our past and understand it. When I read his books and try to decipher his terrible hand-writing, I can _feel_ the excitement in them. _This_ was what he loved, this. And when I'm 18, it will be my turn to go down into the mines like he did. I read all his books so if I find things just like he did, I'll know what they are. I'll know their value, who held them, what they _meant_ to someone. And then I'll fill the empty spaces in the display cases that my father never got a chance to.

If I survive the reaping for the next two years, that is.

I finish getting ready, pouring my arrows out onto the table and lining them up to inspect them. Some of them are a bit worse for wear; they could use re-fletching. Roth would _not_ have been impressed if he could have seen them. I can almost hear the exact words he'd say, in the exact accent with the exact intonation, "If you leave them like that, girl, you'll be taking out your _own_ eye."

As I quickly count my arrows, no one comments on how shoddy they are. No one worries about my eyes. I scoop them all back up and dump them in my quiver, and then slip out before it's light enough for anyone to see me.

The edge of the district is bordered by a tall, electrified fence. Theoretically it's supposed to keep the natural predators out, but natural predators wouldn't come this close to the town, anyway. Still, the Peacekeepers painstakingly maintain it, checking it link by link and wire by wire, year after year, for our 'protection'. It's normally not a problem, because the electricity never works in the morning.

I forget this morning that it _is _working, and it's such a habit just to squeeze under a weaker part of the fence that I nearly electrocute myself. It's the deep, ominous _hum_ of live wire that stops me and I pull back at the last minute.

The air is filled with static electricity, and standing this close to it is making some of my hair stand on end. Frustrated, I smooth it flat, cursing under my breath. I'm restless and I'm _hungry_. What am I going to do now? There's no food in my pantry.

I walk along the perimeter of the humming fence, as if there's any chance of finding a part that isn't live. As I walk, I consider my options. I could climb down into the sewers and try to hunt rats, I suppose, but I'm out of oil and it's so dark down there. I'd be shooting blind. I could try and catch whatever pigeons were left in the main square, but that was hopeless, too. I wouldn't be able to use my bow – a contraband weapon – in front of the Peacekeepers so I had no bloody chance of catching one even _if_ I was lucky enough for there to even be any there. I could risk some of the mushrooms that grow along the creek bed; no one really knows which ones are what and eating them is gambling with your life and your sanity.

It's completely ridiculous to think like this, anyway, because if any of these things were even an option, none of us would be starving. They're not options; we _are_ starving. There is very little food inside this fence other than the meagre rations the Peacekeepers dole out to us for risking our lives by taking tesserae.

Well, our electricity supply isn't exactly known for its reliability, so perhaps the best course of action is to stay put and wait for a break in it. Surely it can't last _all_ morning; it barely makes it through two hours at night-time. I sit down, hidden in the shade of a gnarled old tree and set about fixing some of my dodgy arrows.

The sun is well and truly over the horizon when I hear someone swear. I immediately sit up straight, trying to figure out where it had come from. God, and my bow and my arrows are right out here in the open, for everyone to see! I hurriedly stash them behind the twisted roots and back further into the shadow of the tree.

I'm not sure what I expected; patrols, maybe. To make sure children weren't trying to escape the reaping. That isn't who's swearing, though. I'm so busy looking along the inside of the fence for the source of all the foul language that when I see it's coming from _outside_ the fence, I almost don't believe it. _I'm_ the only person who goes outside, I've been the only person out there since Roth died. So what's this person doing out there? I have my hand on my bow, just in case.

I needn't have been so cautious. The person walking along the fence is a girl from District 12; well, not _from_ District 12, but she lives here. I recognise her from her neat, brushed hair and her brand new rucksack, and from something I'd be able to sell and for a _whole year's_ worth of rations: a hand-held camera.

Samantha Nishimura, daughter of the man we all privately called 'The Censor', because he's in charge of all the media in our district. He doesn't call himself that. I don't think he even knows we do. All our 'Indy' media is circulated on second-hand paper to give it a raw, authentic feel. Like we're reading some underground paper full of the illicit truth. Everyone knows that's not the case, though. Every word of those is run past bureaucrat after bureaucrat by The Censor to make sure it doesn't rock any boats, and everyone, _everyone_ knows the Capitol pays him off for it. He's loaded_. _ And this clean, well-fed girl with glowing skin and a hand-held camera is further proof.

She doesn't need to hunt, and I can't imagine there's game in that big soft bag of hers. So, then, what's she doing _outside _the fence?

I watch her walk along it, looking dismayed. She spins, paces and then stands with her hands on her hips, frowning at it for a few minutes. Then, appearing to come to a decision, she takes a deep breath and squinting her eyes shut, slowly reaches towards the fence with her fingers to test it.

God, she's going to set herself on fire! "_Stop_!" I shout as I jump up, rushing over towards her. "Don't touch it, don't touch it! The current is _really_ strong!"

She recoils violently, holding her hand towards her chest and taking a few steps back. "Okay, okay, I get it!" she says in her accent, which is a strange mixture of the haughty Capitol lilt and the District 12 dialect. It's unfamiliar.

Standing across from her on the other side of the fence, I'm struck by the fact we're the same height. I don't know why I expected her to be taller, but I did. She's at least a year older than me. And despite all that delicious food she gets to eat _every single_ _day_, she's slender and delicate. I suppose someone who doesn't have to hunt for food and work for a living doesn't have need of muscles. Still, it's a surprise. What kind of life must she lead?

"What are you staring at?" she asks me, but it doesn't sound rude, just confused.

Until she says that I'm not aware I _am_ staring. I close my jaw. "What on earth are _you_ doing outside the fence?"

She panics for a fraction of a second, I can see it on her face. "Nothing!" She suddenly remembers the camera and tries to hide it behind her back. Then, she changes her mind, takes it out and holds it towards me. "In case you're wondering, I'm allowed to be out here!" she says hurriedly in a tone that confirms she is definitely _not_ allowed to be out here. "I'm just filming some stuff for my father!"

"Oh," I say, because it seems a bit rude to just point out that she's obviously lying. Additionally, she _is_ an official's daughter, and I don't really feel like it's a particularly good idea to talk back to her. "Well, then, I suppose I'll let you be…" I say slowly, and then go to walk back to where my bow is hidden.

"Wait!" she says, before I've even taken two steps. I turn back to her, and she has this grimace on her face as she looks all the way up the tall, humming fence. "Okay," she concedes, "so maybe I'm _not_ supposed to be outside the fence." Then, she drops her arms and sighs audibly. "Who am I kidding? I'm not even supposed to be _outside the house_."

"Then what are you _doing_ out here?" I ask.

She makes a face. "It's a long story. But I need to come back in." She looks hopefully at me.

It actually makes me smile. "I see. And you need my help."

She winces. "Kind of, yeah…" She surveys the fence again. "So, like, how strong _is _the current? Is it too strong to throw a rug over the fence or something? Maybe you could do that and I could climb over?"

I may have accidentally looked a bit critically at those scrawny arms. They aren't going to carry her up anything. She's the sort of person who needs to be carried, herself.

"Here, watch this," I say, figuring that demonstrating how powerful the current was went further than just saying it. I reach down to the ground and tear out a clump of grass, tossing it at the fence. Each blade hisses as it curls around the wires and then one by one, they burst into flames.

Alarm grows on her face. "Shit!" she says, looking a bit panicky again as she watches the ashes blow back down to the ground. "Well, what the hell do I do now? Dad's going to _kill_ me if he catches me out here!"

"We could wait for the electricity to go off again," I suggest, since that's what I had been doing. "It's never on for long."

She groans. "Except today it will be, because of the reaping," she says. "Dad needs the electricity for all the cameras and lights and stuff on the rooves."

I close my eyes for a few seconds. _Of course_.

My expression makes her panic even more. "God, what do I do?" she asks. "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

I cast my eyes around us. The weak spot in the fence is really close to where we are, and not that I'd probably bother with a live fence if I was by myself, but… "Perhaps we can try something," I tell her, and then my eyes fall on an old shed and I rush over to it, calling over my shoulder. "Give me a moment."

I leave her pacing nervously by the fence.

Inside the shed, I can see it's abandoned. I think it used to be a mechanic's, but anything worth _anything_ has been stripped and stolen. All that's left is the rusted chassis of old cars and other useless tools half-buried in the soil floor after years of neglect. No one can afford cars, now. I dig the tools out anyway, looking for something that might help. There's _lots _of rusted metal, which is useless. Metal is a conductor. There's wood, too, but dry and flaky wood burns far too easily. In the end, I settle on a regular old car tyre and carry it out under an arm back towards where The Censor's daughter is waiting.

"Don't tyres burn, too?" she asks apprehensively as she comes over to the weak spot with me and I crouch, trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to do this.

"Yes, eventually," I tell her vaguely, trying to prop it under the loose flap in order to bend it up. This close to the fence, strands of my hair start to stand on end again. Laughter nearby startles me.

I look up for a second. This time, it _is_ Peacekeepers. I'm not sure what they'll do if they catch The Censor's daughter on the other side of the perimeter, but it wouldn't be the lifetime of imprisonment I'd probably be sentenced with. Fortunately, there's still time, they haven't seen us yet. They're just smoking behind someone's house and chatting; cigarettes they must have just confiscated.

"Shit!" she repeats, and then crouches down to my level again. "So, like, how do we do this?" She tries to help.

She's not helping, though, she's just risking horrible injury. "Just stand back a moment, I'll do it!"

She doesn't. "I've got to get back in there!" she says, reaching under the tiny gap in the fence and risking having the fold snap back on her if the tread slips again. It _does_ snap back, and it very nearly takes off her arm. She smothers a shriek, and for one tense second I think it _has _taken her arm off.

Happily, I'm wrong. As if she hadn't nearly just lost an arm, though, she reaches right back under the fence to help me again.

This time, when we pry the fence back and I smell burnt rubber in with the cigarette smoke, the flap holds. "Crawl underneath it!" I hiss frantically to her. "Quickly, before I lose my grip!"

She looks down at the mud under the fence for a second before she kneels down to go through it. She's _actually_ worried about her nice clothes, even though there are Peacekeepers just over the hill.

"Go on! Go on!" I'm saying frantically to her; if I get caught holding the fence open like this, I'm done for.

Thank _god_, she does. She lays down and drags herself through that dirt and just as the tyre slips in my sweaty hands and _snaps_ back into place, she pulls her legs free of it with another shriek.

Then we're both crouched there at the base of the fence, breathing heavily. Despite the fact that I very nearly participated in grievously injuring an official's daughter, I'm smiling. We did it, and we didn't get caught! I turn my head towards her, expecting her to be just as relieved as I am.

She's not looking at me, though, and she's not smiling. She's gazing mournfully through the fence… at her bag and that _bloody_ camera.

She's not serious, is she? "I'm not going to help you get that," I say firmly, as if there's any question about it.

She scrunches up her face. "I know," she says. "It's just… I took some amazing footage. It's amazing out there." She pauses. "I mean, except for the wild dogs."

"Well, your bag and camera are food for them, now," I say, standing up and helping her to do so, as well. "What's in that bag, anyway? Is it really important?"

She shakes her head as she brushes off herself off. She's _covered_ in caked dirt. "Just clothes," she says, and frowns down her body. "Which I could totally use now, by the way."

I laugh at her. "Even covered in dirt you're still dressed better than I am," I say wryly, helping her brush it off. "I think this old shirt is more patches than it is actual shirt."

She gives me this little smile. "No way, I love it," she says. "I love all those textures, they're really great."

She's just being nice, because it's a really horrible shirt. That feels better than if it were actually a nice shirt, though. I smile at her.

She smiles back and sticks out her hand towards me. "Sam," she greets me. "And, like, thanks for saving my ass."

I shake it, and I can't get that stupid smile off my face. "Lara. And, '_like'_, you're most welcome."

Our conversation is interrupted when the Peacekeepers begin to patrol again, I take her slender wrist and lead her back into the safety of the gnarled trees where I'd been hiding before. From within them, we watch a patrol wander lazily along the perimeter, smoking and chatting.

Those two patrolling, coupled with the fact that I wouldn't be getting under the fence any time soon, meant that my quest for food was over before it had even started.

"There goes my breakfast," I mutter, sighing audibly.

Sam looks genuinely confused until she catches sight of my bow in the roots and joins the dots. "—_Oh_." She reaches out to gingerly touch it, like she did with the fence. I let her, because at least touching _this _won't kill her. "That's really cool," she comments on it. "Can you use it?"

I glance back over my shoulder at her and give her a look.

She laughs nervously. "Sorry. It's just really cool, that's all. I've never seen anyone outside The Games use anything like this. Are you good?"

I never miss a target, but it's bad manners to boast, isn't it? "Well, I'm not too shabby, I think."

I know exactly what she's going to say for several seconds before she's said it, because I can hear her draw an excited breath. "Is it… too much to ask you to, like, demonstrate?"

I'm of a mind not to because it's a waste of arrows, but when I turn back to her, she has this really excited expression on her face. "Please?" she adds, for good measure.

It actually makes me smile. I _am_ good, and it _would_ be sort of fun to show her. I lift my bow up and bend it a few times to limber the wood, and then thread an arrow through. She's holding her breath as if she's watching some incredible stunt on telly. While I'm scouting around to find something to shoot that's not so close that it will alert the Peacekeepers as to our whereabouts, she points at a tree some distance from where we are, beside what used to be the dairy.

I do aim at it, but quickly decide it's too close to be a challenge. Farther away and beyond it I spot the old call bells, the one the farmer's wife would ring to call all the labourers in for tea. They're rusted and untouched for decades, but they're _perfect_. Without further ado, I release the arrow and the metal tip slams into the bell with loud, ringing chime that reverberates across the valley.

The Peacekeepers stop in their tracks and turn towards it. The building is still dark and empty, but the bell is swinging ominously in the doorway and ringing seemingly of its own accord. The two masked men look at each other, spooked.

I can't help but chuckle at that, and neither can Sam. When I lower my bow, she's smiling. "That's _incredible_," she says, looking at me like I'm some sort of hero. "You hit it, just like that! You are seriously, like, the coolest person I've ever met!"

I shrug, but I'm smiling, too. I'm going to blush if she keeps speaking to me like that.

We stand there for a moment, grinning, and then something occurs to her. "Oh!" she says, and then sits us down on the roots. "You're hungry, right? Here!" She reaches deep into the pockets of her pretty cardigan, and when she pulls them out, they're _full_ of blueberries. "They were growing in the fields down there. Want some?"

Is she _kidding_? I am _absolutely famished_. We sit together on the twisted roots and I let her dump handfuls of them into my lap. Some of them are a little crushed from her foray under the fence, but, God, it's been _ages _since I've had blueberries this ripe. I carefully place them one-by-one into my mouth; they're sweet and juicy, and each one of them bursts on my tongue as a chew. I _love_ blueberry season.

She watches me eat them, the knees of her neat, tailored slacks drawn up under her chin.

I occurs to me how rude I'm being. "Would you like some, too?" I ask, offering her a handful back.

She shakes her head. "Nah, it's fine, I had breakfast earlier."

I nod, secretly happy that there's more for me, and keep eating them.

She's still thinking. She opens her mouth and closes it a few times, and then says carefully, "You're that archaeologist's daughter, aren't you? Croft, or something?"

I stop chewing for a moment, and then I swallow awkwardly. It's been a while since someone called me that. She's right, though, so I nod.

She mirrors my nod. "I thought I recognised you. We ran a lot of news on that awful explosion at the mine. It was so unusual, you know? No one can figure out how it even could have happened and—" She stops speaking when she sees my face and winces. "Well… you know."

I appreciate her leaving the description there, because I _do_ know. I know _far_ too well, even though it was many years ago. I put another few berries in my mouth rather than speaking.

"Yeah…" she says slowly. "I'm sorry for bringing that up, it's just… well. Dad doesn't think it's safe for me out here so I have to stay inside all the time and just watch the news. So the news is kind of what I know about this place." Something occurs to her. "Oh! Dad does actually have one of your father's books, though, I think? It's locked in his office and no one's allowed to read it."

_That_ makes me stop eating. I can't swallow fast enough. One of the books the Peacekeepers seized? It takes a few seconds for me to process that. Why was it _locked away_? "Why won't he let people read it? What's it about?"

She shrugs. "I don't know." She leans towards me, looking excited. "But, hey, maybe we can, like, sneak in there and find out? I mean, there's got to be a reason it's locked away, right?"

Despite how hungry I am, I forget about the berries. "Well, yes, but it's so strange. Dad was really just researching the things he found while he was in the mine," I say. "Bits of broken pottery. Sometimes the odd fragment of furniture or jewellery. Nothing that could possibly bother the Peacekeepers or the Capitol. Sometimes I think they just might have taken away his favourite books because they didn't like his attitude."

She doesn't look convinced. "Nah, Dad's pretty pragmatic about this stuff," she says. "If he's locked it away, it's because it's dangerous."

_Because it's dangerous…_ What could _possibly_ be in that book that made it get seized and locked away? It's _killing_ me. "I want to see it," I tell her. "Do you think it's safe to go now?"

For a moment her face is completely lit up and begins to say 'yes', but she stops midway through speaking and visible deflates. "_No_," she grumbles. "It's the stupid _reaping_ today which means I have to spend _ages _with the stylist – she has no idea about actual style, by the way, I _always _have to tell her what I want to wear – and then we all have to go stand in the square for _ages_ and listen to the officials talk and talk. "

She doesn't sound at all scared, and I find it odd. _Everyone_ is scared their name will be drawn. Then again, I suppose if she's rich she doesn't need to take tesserae so there's much less chance her name _will_ get drawn.

"Well, perhaps tomorrow?" I ask, and then smile a little. "Assuming neither of our names gets selected, that is."

She looks uncomfortable. "Yeah," she says, and then changes the subject. "So, what are you going to wear this afternoon?"

It's an odd question. We're supposed to dress up for the reaping because it's broadcast to the Capitol, but why would anyone care what they wear to something like _that_? It's nonsense, so I gesture down at my berry-stained slacks. "This. I don't really have anything else, anyway. I don't have any use for nice clothes."

Her eyes pass over my old, patched clothes. She's not being judgmental, I don't think. "Oh." As we sit in silence for a few more seconds, she tries again in this really friendly, chirpy tone. "Which district do you think is going to have the best costume this time? I thought District 10's was _amazing_ last year, and the way the camera picked up on all the highlights of–"

"—I should hope that they _all_ have very lovely clothes," I say pointedly, not understanding why she suddenly changed the subject a second ago and why she wants to talk about _clothes,_ "because for most of _them_ it will be the first and last nice thing they ever wear before they're killed."

She looks completely stunned, and then clamps her mouth shut and looks away.

I feel a bit awful about that as soon as I say it; I don't need to be so short with her just because I want to keep talking about Dad's book. She's probably just trying to distract herself from thinking about what would happen this afternoon if her name's drawn. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"—No, I understand," she says, interrupting _me_ this time. She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, looking down at her knees. "At home, the Games is all anyone is talking about at the moment. Everyone's excited. It's all Dad's been talking about for _weeks_, so it's kind of just habit to talk about it because Dad always does…"

I can't even _imagine_ a parent behaving like that. Roth never slept, not for _weeks _beforehand. "He's _excited_? But isn't he scared your name is going to be the one drawn?"

She squints her eyes shut, and then I can see an internal debate playing out across her face. In the end, one side of it wins out. "Do you promise not to say anything?"

Who would I talk to? "I promise."

She makes a face. "Okay, so… It's optional for officials' kids to put their names in, but we all line up anyway so it looks like we have to as well," she says and then _panics_. "But don't tell anyone, okay? All the kids would be really angry and hate me even more if they found out!"

_It's optional for officials' kids to…_

God… I can hardly believe it. No wonder she isn't scared about the reaping: her life isn't on the line. I stare at her.

I can clearly see the regret on her face. She knows she's opened a chasm between us, but she doesn't know what to say, so she says anything. "I mean, I'm supposed to meet the stylist right now," she checks her fancy watch, "or, like, right half an hour ago. But maybe there's still time to sneak a peek at your Dad's book…?"

It takes me a second to get over the fact that _she doesn't have to have her name in the reaping_ to realise what she's saying is an olive branch rather than a genuine offer to come over. I look across at her. She's delicate, and pretty, and friendly… and just _from another planet_. For just a second I can tell she feels that way, too.

"You should probably go and meet your stylist, if you have an appointment with them…" I tell her.

She looks so, so crestfallen. "_Shit_. I shouldn't have told you that listing is optional," she says, half to herself. "I should have kept my big mouth shut."

"And have me believe you're as scared as I am when you're not?"

Her expression is unreadable for a moment. "It depends what you think I'm scared of," she says cryptically, and then sighs. "But, yeah. I mean, no, I mean—" she corrects herself, "—I don't know. I was looking forward to helping you find out what's in your Dad's book, and we were sitting here and talking…" She shakes her head. "I shouldn't have said anything."

A silence stretches between us, and it's probably just making her later and later for her appointment. I stand up. "You should probably get going," I say, helping her up.

She lets me, and she's as light as a feather. "Yeah," she says, but she doesn't let go of my hand. She watches me for a second, and then, deciding something, reaches into one of her breast pockets and takes something out of it. She smiles a little, looking pleased with herself again as she places it in my palm.

I look down at it. It's a tiny little brooch.

"It's a little bird, a little wild one," Sam tells me, her smile warming up as she says it. "It's my good luck charm. When I was little, dad would always have birds on the front balcony, and somehow, they'd always get away. The cages would be empty. So, yeah," she touches it fondly in my hand, "I hope it brings you luck, and I hope whenever you feel stuck, you'll find a way to be free."

_Little bird…_ Those words bring emotions to me that I wasn't expecting. One of Roth's good friends used to call me that when I was a girl. 'Little bird,' he'd say, and throw me in the air above his head like I was flying. I _had _felt free.

"Thank you," I manage, barely. I'm too lost in the memory to properly acknowledge what she's giving me.

"I hope it brings you more luck than it's brought me, anyway," she says, laughing a few times a bit darkly. "Although, I suppose when I was stuck on the other side of that fence you _did _show up…" She's still smiling at me.

I can't smile back, even though I should. I'm still half-in that memory of having people around me laughing and hugging me.

I think she misunderstands my expression, and her smile fades. "It must be awful, wondering if your name's going to be drawn." I nod. "Have you taken heaps of tesserae?" I nod again, and her eyes glaze over. "And you're still going hunting for food because you have no breakfast…"

"I don't mind it," I say honestly. "It's nice to be out there and away from everything."

Her eyes are still glazed. "Yeah, it was." She looks back at me. "But I bet it would be ever better to _actually_ have food instead."

I laugh at that: it's an impossible dream. I'm not an official's daughter, I'm an orphan from District 12. "Yeah," I say, coming back to my senses a little. "Look, Sam, I… It's fine. It's just…"

"–I know," she says. "I know. Even if you think I don't. Just… good luck, okay? I hope your name isn't drawn and we _can _sneak around my Dad's study together and find out what's in your Dad's book."

This time, I do smile. "Yeah, me too," I tell her, and then I bid her farewell and collect my bow and arrows.

As I turn and walk the road home, I feel her watching me until I've rounded the corner.

My house feels larger and quieter than usual. I put away my bow and quiver, and then go and sit in the living room with all the other books and artefacts to consider them. They seem so innocuous. There doesn't seem to be anything dangerous about them at all. A baby's rattle. A piece of pottery. Old books with diagrams of places my father found items in the mines and theories on why they were there. Why would someone keep things like this locked up?

The hours drag on til one o'clock when I need to follow all the other twelve- to eighteen-year olds into the main square. Before I leave, I check all the windows and lock them. Not that doing that would necessarily stop looters if my name is selected, but it makes me feel better. I hide my bow somewhere safe. I walk along Dad's bookshelves and touch each leather-bound spine and will the universe to deliver me back here for another year.

Outside on the roads, families are all wandering towards the square, hunched, arm-in-arm and hand-in-hand. There are tears, but other than that, there's a tense silence over everyone. There's no one to hold my hand, so I walk by myself. At the square, I sign in by myself, and walk to my place in the ropes by myself. Another year, I think, looking at all the nervous faces around me.

Circling the square on the decorated rooftops, cameras point like sniper rifles at us all. I'm looking around at them when I notice someone else in the crowd doing the same: _Sam_. She's smiling wistfully, though, as if she's imagining she were up there manning them.

My heart lifts, and I think about shouting out to her. I nearly do, but then decide I don't want to call that sort of attention to myself while there are cameras everywhere. Unlike Sam, I'm not a fan of them. So I release that breath and just watch her. I watch her for _ages_, it feels like, before I realise something: she's not wearing a stylish, pretty dress, she's wearing a patched up shirt like mine. The horrible shirt she complimented just to be nice: she's spent these last few hours getting someone to make one for her. One just like my horribly ugly old shirt. And now she's standing amongst girls in their best dresses, proudly wearing it.

That means something, and I can't think what it is. It almost doesn't matter what it is, because I know it's for me. I touch my hip pocket where the Little Bird pin is. She's lovely, I think. She's really lovely. Even if she's an official's daughter who might as well come from another planet.

Despite the fact she's lovely, though, none of the girls her age are standing anywhere near her. I'm not sure if she notices or not, but she has a peaceful, knowing smile on her face. I feel momentarily really jealous that she knows she's going to be okay, and then feel awfully guilty about it.

On the dot of two, the mayor begins officiating the ceremony with a long, drawn out and romanticised history of Panem. I've heard it a thousand times, I can almost recite it verbatim. I'm standing and only half-listening to it when I notice my eyes have landed on Sam again and her lips are moving.

She looks bored, and she's mouthing the words the mayor says as he says them. Unexpectedly, it makes me grin. Then I remember _her_ life isn't in danger and I stop grinning. Then I feel bad about thinking that, and then I'm not sure what to feel, so I just listen to the mayor and try not to keep looking over at Sam.

He's finished too quickly, and then he introduces District 12's escort: a short, haughty woman with a tall hairdo who looks down her aristocratic nose at the crowd of children in front of her. She's appropriately dressed for the occasion in festive pink, but she couldn't look less festive. The expression on her face suggests she's serving time for a punishment, not holding the 'great honour' of being escort to a District in the Hunger Games. The Capitol apparently cares so little about District 12 that they can't even be bothered finding an escort who looks even a little enthusiastic about her job. I don't catch her full name, but it sounds something like 'Arcadia' or 'Acacia' or something Bloomington. It doesn't really matter; I don't care what her name is, anyway.

She doesn't look like she cares about our names, either, which is a pity because she's about to be reading two of them. "Welcome to the 74th Hunger Games," she says stiffly. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

At least she doesn't fuss about with formalities, she walks straight up to the glass ball with the girls' names in it.

Suddenly, I care what's going on up on the stage.

There are _thousands_ of slips of paper in there, I promise myself as I look at the glass ball, _thousands_. Seven of them have my name on them, but there are _thousands. _The odds don't matter, though. As she reaches unceremoniously into the ball with her lips pinched in disdain, I'm sweating like every single one of them reads my name.

She straightens the slip of paper and her eyes run across it as she walks back to the microphone.

I don't have a family. I don't have anyone who depends on me. But at that second, all I can think of is that 'dangerous' book locked away in The Censor's office and the gap in my father's bookcase. I want to know why it's locked away. I want to have the opportunity to find out. And I want very much to do both those things with Sam. Is it odd to think like that about someone you've just met? I worry about that as my fingertips brush the Little Bird pin in my pocket for good luck and wait for the name to be read.

It's eternity before the Escort speaks, and when she speaks, the people around me relax. It takes me a full second to realize she's read a name, and it's not mine.

It's Samantha Nishimura.

For a moment, I think I'm hearing things, and everyone is looking around at each other, trying to find where Sam is. It's when people back away from her, staring at her, that I realise it's true. Her name _was _selected.

But it _can't_ be,I think. It's optional, and she'd told me just this morning that her name wasn't there!

Her portly father is up beside the stage and I see him stand up, looking both horrified and confused, his eyes searching through the crowd for her. He's yelling at someone.

Sam's eyes are searching through the crowd, too, and they stop when they get to me. When she looks at me, I'm struck by a sudden, agonising memory of our earlier conversation.

'And you have no breakfast,' she'd said, and then she'd asked me what it was like, waiting for my name to be drawn. God, and I know what's happened. I know why her name is there.

She's looking at me, and my stomach drops. It drops all the way to the bloody ground, and it keeps going. I can barely _think _what I know has happened, much less accept it:

She's taken tesserae for me, and her name has been drawn.

I feel sick. So, so sick. Just a moment ago I'd been scoffing at the fact _she_ was safe when the rest of us weren't, we were all frightened for our lives. I see it in her eyes now, though: _fear_, even though her jaw is still open.

While we're looking at each other, the Peacekeepers take her shoulders to escort her up to the stage. Beside them, she looks _tiny_. Anyone could snap those arms of hers like a twig, and she's going to be fighting for her life.

All I can think of is her standing on the other side of the electrified fence with her camera, begging for my help.

She trips going up the stairs onto the stage. Around the perimeter of the square, I can see bookkeepers already taking bets she'll be the first to die. The odds are probably better than 1:1.

Arcadia-Acacia-whoever is so disinterested in the drama of an official's daughter being selected that she's already moved on to select the boy's name Sam will be competing with. She reads it, and I recognise the name; he's a tall, burly merchant's son and his father is well-known to rip people off with zero remorse. When the boy's up on stage with Samantha, he looks at her like she's prey. She doesn't even come up to his collarbones.

She's dead, I realise. I'm looking at a dead person. If I just stand here and gape, I'm going to sit in front of my telly later with my bags full of grain – thanks to her – and I'm going to watch her be brutally murdered within thirty seconds of the games starting.

Her eyes find mine again, and I can see it in them: she knows. That girl who had been so impressed by my keen aim with a bow and who had so generously shared her blueberries. That girl who talked excitedly about helping me with my father's book and then easily, so easily, gave me a treasured possession. That girl standing up there in solidarity with me in my patched shirt.

She's going to die. She can't aim a bow. She can't run, and she definitely can't fight. She can't do _anything_ to protect herself.

But _I _can.

_I_ can protect myself, and I can protect her.

When I hear my voice, it catches. But I hear it – and so does everyone else.

"I volunteer!" I call. Those words make me numb as I shout them.

Sam blinks at me through her teary eyes, and for a second, just for a second, I see something other than fear: _hope_. It's gone in an instant when she figures out what I'm doing, and she opens her mouth and leans towards the microphone to try and stop me. But by then, it's too late. _Everyone_ has turned towards me, the entire square.

I look across them, and this time, I don't stumble over my words. I'm doing this, aren't I?

I take a deep breath, looking directly at Sam as I shout, "I volunteer as tribute!"


End file.
